Occupational Hazards
by Spinesless
Summary: A collection of hurt/comfort oneshots. Latest: "Everything" Merlin keeps having nightmares about burning at the stake and-what do you know-burns himself one day while tending to a fire. Thankfully, Arthur is there to comfort him and assure him everything will be alright.
1. Stifling

**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin. T for language. **

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_Summary: Arthur hits Merlin and is beside himself._

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You're done.

You're completely fed up with people disrespecting you and ignoring your word. You're a new king, yes, but that doesn't give people the right to act the way they are. They're rolling their eyes behind your back, scoffing at every word you say, every decision you make. They second guess you. They judge your wife. You are _king_, god damn it, and people better start treating you as such.

You, know that this doesn't excuse your actions, however you try to justify them.

You'll come up with excuses, later: you were tired. You were angry. He was just there, it just happened. You didn't mean to. You didn't plan to. It just sort of happened.

It was an accident.

But it wasn't, not really.

No, because the wave of unadulterated rage that hits you is real, it's nearly tangible. It thrums in your veins and your vision half clouds over with blood pounding in your eyes, half deaf with it pounding in your ears.

He notices your instantaneous change, however. He notices everything about you, but it doesn't click in his head fast enough. He can deduce somewhat about what might happen next, but you've never reacted like this before. You've never completely lost it like you're losing it right now. This is new territory.

You raise your clenched hand into the air and lunge forward, but he doesn't have enough sense to duck. This has never happened before. He's still calculating your next move, based off years of service, but this reaction isn't even on his list, so naturally, it never occurs to him. This is a new experience for you both.

Just before your fist meets flesh, you swear you notice an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He draws a conclusion that can't possibly be right, because this is you and this is him and this is something you don't do.

A direct hit. You feel your ring catch skin and pull, tearing a streak down the curved plane of his face. His head snaps to the side and he reels from the impact, he nearly goes sprawling across the floor. The tray he held is pulled from his grasp, food and dishes go flying. He's folded in half but still mostly upright. You step back and the fog has vaporized and what have you done oh god ohgod oh _god._

The emotion is clear on his face, reflecting your own thoughts horror. He cups his face and when he removes his hand his fingers and painted with a thin strip of crimson. You look at your own fist like it's a separate entity, like your limb was acting of its own accord. A speck of red colors the silver of your ring. Oh, god.

His lip is bleeding, too, and is starting to swell.

"I––" What the fuck could you _possibly_ say? "––I'm so sorry. Oh, god. Merlin––"

He feels his face gingerly and works his jaw. "It's alright," he says, wincing.

Asshole.

"No, it's not," you say, anger staining your voice. "It's really not. God, _fuck_. 'Alright' isn't even _close_."

"Arthur, I'm fine. It's just a scratch. You––you were angry, I understand––"

"You shouldn't have to fucking understand!I should be able to get angry without _abusing_ people." You bury your face in your hands. "And _you_ shouldn't be okay with this."

He just shrugs. Oh, that fucking _prick_.

"I've put up with a lot worse shit than getting punched in the face whilst in your service, _sire_. Poisoned, attacked by wild animals and bandits and evil sorcerers. This shit, it comes with the job."

You groan. Even injured, he doesn't shut up. "Well, now you can add 'pissed off kings' to that list."

"You say that like it wasn't there already."

You shoot him a look. He grins his fucking grin, effectively splitting his lip further. He stops immediately. You groan again, inwardly this time.

He stands there a moment, checking the scratch again, and turns, going to pick up the spilled food.

"What are you doing?" you demand.

He freezes with a goblet in his hand. "Cleaning...?"

You shake your head. Insufferable arse. You point to one of the chairs at the table. "Sit."

He blinks. "Arthur, it's fine, really––"

"_Sit_."

He doesn't argue further. You walk over to the basin in the corner of the room and pick up a rag beside it. You soak it a moment and wring out the excess water, your motions very deliberate, and bring it back to him. You take up the chair and scoot to be directly in front of him. You wish you had ice, or snow, to help with the swelling, but the cold months are still a few weeks off. You don't even have any of that salve Gaius gave you for bruises left.

He looks uncomfortable as you press the rag to his face. The scratch and lip have stopped bleeding. You gently remove the dried blood. He squirms a bit and refuses to meet your eye. You swallow sharply. Like this is any easier for you, you think. "Stop squirming." He ceases his wiggling.

"Arthur." He meets your hand on his face with his, as if to tug the rag from your grasp. "I can tend to my own wounds." His hand is on yours. The pads of his fingertips are dry.

You both are looking right at each other, unwilling to break eye contact.

"I'm sorry for hitting you," you say without relinquishing the rag or looking away.

"I know," he says. "It's okay."

"It's really not."

"Okay," he agrees. "It's not. However. It happened. There's nothing more you can do."

"I shouldn't have hit you."

He's getting impatient now. "No," he says slowly. "You shouldn't have."

"I'm sorry."

"I forgive you." He is successful in his task of removing your hand from his face, tugging at your fingers and taking the damp rag.

"What will you tell the others?" you ask, folding your hands in your lap as he cleans a bit of dried blood off his jawline. You suppose he could tell the truth, but then there'd be confrontation, and Gwen would be angry, and he'd have to explain himself, that he lost control of his emotions and 'losing control' is a really weak reason to hit one's manservant.

He shrugs. "Run-in with the ground."

"Does that work?"

"Usually."

You blink. "You tell me that all the time."

He freezes for a moment before resuming his cleaning. "I'm clumsy too, you know that."

"Well, are you _actually_ clumsy, or just an incessant liar?" You furrow your brow, remembering all the times you noticed a stray bruise or bandage and the offhand comments you made about his balance or state of mind or sobriety.

"Arthur––"

Something clicks then. "So, you don't lie all the time? But you do lie? About your injuries? Is someone hurting you? Are you trying to them?"

He is visibly agitated now. "No, no, _no_. It's just––nothing. The usual occupational hazards, I mentioned them before. I'm not getting systematically abused or anything."

"Then why do you lie about it?"

He shrugs again. "You're king. It's none of your concern every time I stumble a bit, or singe my self getting your fire started? Or every time I get manhandled by the other knights or occasional noble?"

Your gaze is absolute and you want to interject that, yes, it _is_ your concern when he gets hurt. He may be a useless manservant, but he's a precious friend.

Not that you'll tell him that, or anything.

"The latter, yes," you say. "How often _do_ you get manhandled by visitors?"

"Not often! Arthur." He shakes his head. "I know you don't believe me, but I'm fully capable of taking care of myself." The rag is crumpled in his hand.

You snort. He shoots you a look.

"Really," he says with conviction. "It's fine. It's all fine."

You sigh and run a hand through your hair. It's very distressing to hear that your manservant––your friend––is getting hurt on the job, by visitors and knights, at that, and then _lying_ about it.

"Okay," you say. "I believe you." You don't. "But if anything gets out of hand, for gods sake, Merlin, let me know, yeah? I'm the king, damn it all to hell, I'm not having anyone use my manservant as a battle puppet."

He opens his mouth to speak.

"Anyone but me, that is."

He closes his mouth and allows a small smile that wont aggravate his busted lip. "Okay," he says. "I'll let you know." He gets up to leave and looks like he wants to start cleaning again, but you wave him off.

"I'll get someone to take care of this, go see Gaius. You're dismissed for the night."

He blinks, pleasantly surprised. "Are you always this nice when you abuse your waitstaff?"

"_Merlin_."

"Good night, my lord."

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**A/N: do you know how hard it is to find decent reference videos of people being punched in the face**

**it is pretty hard, let me tell ya**

**okay hi hello! this was meant to be a one shot but i? possibly have an idea for a part tWO oh geez but i don't know sigh this fic ended up a lot Nicer than i intended, i kind of like mean arthur i don't know help**

**but yeah part two is a possibility sorry merlin you're never gonna catch a break with me**

**! i was thinking of just making a collection of hurt/comfort oneshots instead of posting them individually?**

**would you (yes, you) prefer that? is that the preferred method of posting/reading oneshots pertaining to one genre? i would like your opinion on the matter very much**

**also hEY season five is turning out pretty good so far! maybe we'll even get a magic reveal! (collective laughter) yeah right**

**anyway thanks for reading! feedback and constructive criticism are both welcome and encouraged!**


	2. Stifling Part 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin. Warning for language and also bad writing.**

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_Summary: Arthur doesn't like it when Merlin hides his injuries, especially if those injuries are caused by a noble or a visitor. _

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You wake up and sort of wish you hadn't.

Pale, meagre light leaks into the room in spurts, the already weakened dawn sun muffled by a layer of cloud coverage. You figure it'll rain later in the day, intermittently, in awful drizzles that will dampen everyone and turn the grass and dirt to mud that'll cling to trouser legs and boot heels. It'll be slightly humid, too, so you'll sweat while working and you'll be sticky and slightly wet all day.

You roll onto your back, having slipped onto your stomach some point during the night, and for a solid few seconds, you stare blearily at the ceiling, unwilling to start the day. _Come on, _you think._ Get up_. With effort, you push your self into a sitting position and swing your legs over the side of the bed.

You _ache_. Your muscles and bones and joints protest with every movement, reminders of the absolutely abysmal yesterday. Yesterday, where you had been lent to a visiting noble like a common maid and _not_ the King's personal manservant. Stupid noble hadn't brought any of his own servants with him, which was suspicious in itself.

Lord Iorwick had watched as you lugged his two massive chests through the courtyard to the castle, up to the room where he would stay. He had you unpack while also demanding you prepare his armor, for he wished to train after his midday meal. He sent his meal back three times, always complaining about something different each time.

During training, he had beat you so far into the ground you had trouble digging yourself out. And you have the bruises to prove it. It was exhausting work; Iorwick was possibly more demanding than the King himself, and was definitely more temperamental.

Gaius raps sharply on the door. "Merlin," he calls. "You're going to be late."

"Coming," you call back and with a quiet groan, shrug on fresh clothes before heading out.

Gaius looks up as you enter. "Lord Iorwick's headache tonic is on the table there." He gestures to a small phial of slightly milky liquid perched on a corner.

"You wouldn't happen to have anything a bit stronger, would you?" you ask, testily.

"Merlin," Gaius says and you just sigh, waving him off. You're just sick of serving prattish nobles, is all. You say as much.

"You're back to serving Arthur this afternoon, though, yes?"

You can't tell if Gaius is trying to be funny or not, because Arthur is quite literally the King of prattish nobility. You snort. "Yes."

"Get going," Gaius chides. "It won't do you good if you're late."

"Thank you, Gaius." You slip the phial into your pocket as you head out, rolling your shoulders as you walk down to the kitchens.

Lord Iorwick is already awake when you enter his chambers, a plate of food balanced precariously in your grasp. He sits at the table in the centre of the room in his nightclothes, pouring over a stack of papers.

"Good morning, sire," you say with all the eloquence of a perfect servant, going as far as to bow.

The lord doesn't so much as glance up. He grunts and points at the empty space on the other side of the table. You walk over and place the tray on the table and go to reach into your pocket to pull out the phial of headache tonic. As you draw it out, Iorwick reaches over and grabs your wrist in a bone-crushing grip, digging his nails into your arm where your sleeve has ridden up. A strangled noise escapes your throat and you look up at the lord.

"_And just what do you think you're doing, boy?_"

The bottle falls from you fingers onto the table but does not break.

"Trying to poison me, eh?" Iorwick licks his lips. "Thought I wouldn't notice you putting something into my food?"

"What––? No!" you squawk, trying to free yourself from his ironclad hold. You can feel the skin bruising. "It's a headache tonic, from the court physician himself!"

He holds you fast a few moments more before letting go with a rough push. He shoves the tray and bottle to the ground where they splatter and break unceremoniously. You hold your arm to you body. "_Clean it up_!" Iorwick snarls. You drop to your knees while he turns his back and rummages through one of his chests.

You keep your head down as you clean, anger thrumming in your veins. You cut your self on a shard of glass from the ruined phial, drawing a short gasp from your lips. The cut just makes you angrier, and you clean up as fast as you can.

* * *

You never thought you'd see the day where going to work for Arthur would be a blessing. But after spending a solid day and a half with Lord Iorwick, it's a relief. He's not the _worst_ noblemen you've had to work for, but he's definitely in the top five.

Your wrist gives a painful twinge, as does most of your body. The skin on your forearm is mottled bruises in the shape of a hand, punctuated by small crescent cuts. It's the most obvious of your injuries sustained over the last day, and you find yourself unconsciously tugging down your sleeve to cover the unsightly mark. It's a very precise shape, a hand, you won't be able to lie and say you fell if someone catches sight of it.

You remember back to a few weeks ago, in Arthur's chambers, the blow he dealt you, and what he said.

He told you to let him know if anything got out of hand. This wasn't getting out of hand, certainly not. You can handle this, you are stronger than anyone ever gives you credit for. You're not going to bother Arthur and complain about Iorwick. Whining is childish.

If he finds out, though, he'll be angry.

Well. He doesn't have to find out.

But maybe he could talk to Iorwick about being more lenient.

No. You've dealt with enough nobles to know that Iorwick would probably just get worse. You make a silent vow not to tell Arthur.

You grit your teeth as you shift the weight of the tray laden with hood in your hands to knock on the heavy wooden door.

"Enter," calls the King, and you push open the door.

Arthur is seated at the table in his room, much like Iorwick that morning. Only Arthur isn't going to shove the food you've brought him to the ground and force you to clean it up.

Well. You hope not.

You can never tell with Arthur.

"Good afternoon, sire!" you announce with a grin. He pushes the papers he's consulting to the side and you place the food before him.

"Afternoon, Merlin." He surveys you a moment before turning to his meal. "Thought I had gotten rid of you. Everything alright with Lord Iorwick?"

You falter barely a moment. "Everything's fine with him, yes. Have you been completely lost without my guidance the last day and a half?"

"I'm quite capable of taking are of myself, _Mer_lin."

"If you say so, sire."

You haven't been with Arthur more than five minutes yet you feel tremendously better. Arthur doesn't need to hear about a pissed off noble. It would surely dampen his mood.

You fill his goblet with a pitcher of water, leaning across in order to do so. He glances up. "What's that?" he asks, casually.

"What's what?" You quickly tug down your sleeve.

"That cut, there, on your finger."

You look down. "Cut my self on a bit of glass," you say.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "I'm surprised you've made it this far, Merlin, what with your clumsiness. It's a miracle you haven't offed yourself by falling down some stairs or accidentally beheading yourself."

"Just another miracle of the world, I suppose." You are visibly relieved. Arthur gives you a side-along glance before returning to his food.

When he's finished eating, you go to clear his plate.

"Everything alright, Merlin?"

You swallow. "Yes, sire, of course. What would make you think otherwise?"

"It's just that you're favoring your left arm. You're right handed."

"I am not favoring my left."

"Yes, you are."

"Am not."

"_Merlin_." He stares at you evenly and you groan inwardly. "Are you hurt?"

"N––"

"Are you going to _lie_ to me?" You sigh and he beckons you over. He grabs your wrist and you hiss in pain. He draws up your sleeve and twists your arm, examining the bruises. "What are these?"

You take your arm back and shrug down your sleeve. "They're bruises."

"And how did you _obtain_ these bruises, _Mer_lin? It looks as if someone grabbed you."

"You've answered your own question, my lord, very good."

"Who grabbed you?" he demands.

You remain silent.

"Was it Iorwick?"

You turn away.

"What else has he done? Merlin, look at me."

You hesitate a moment before turning back. "Yes," you admit. "It was Iorwick. He likes to manhandle his servant, apparently. It's fine, Arthur. Nothing I can't handle."

His gaze narrows. Oh, crap.

"What did I tell you, Merlin?"

"Arthur, it's not important. I can still work––"

"Do you honestly think I just care about you being to work? Merlin. You are my _friend_, my advisor. This isn't a case of damaged goods. Did he do anything else to you? Break anything, maybe? Do you have any life threatening injuries you'd like to bring to light now?"

Arthur's concern is endearing, but also stifling. You can take care of yourself. "Thank you, Arthur, really, thank you. But it's alright. I can take care of myself."

He presses his lips into a thin line. "Are you really going to keep up that 'it's all fine' nonsense? I have half a mind to find Iorwick right now––"

You panic slightly. "No, no–– Arthur. That will certainly not be necessary. You need the support of the nobles––all the nobles. You can't go challenging them to duel if you want them to cooperate."

"I wasn't going to challenge him to a _duel_, Merlin, I was simply going to tell him to stop roughhousing my manservant."

You let out a breath. "You can do that, if you like."

"I think I might."

"Okay."

"I'm still a little put off you didn't come to me when this happened."

"_Arthur_."

"I care about you, Merlin."

You grow quiet immediately, feel your face turn pink. "Thank you" is the only thing you can say.

"I don't like seeing you hurt."

You swallow. "Arthur," you start. "Is this still about––? Because, I told you last month, I forgive you."

He runs his hands through his hair. You can't tell what he's thinking. "You're not going to tell me when someone's hurting you, are you?"

"What?"

"If this happens again. You're not going to tell me." It's not a question.

You hesitate. "Probably not," you admit.

This is not the answer he wants, but it is the one he expected. He sighs.

"I guess checking you over for bruises and interrogating you is crossing a line, then."

You make an indignant sound. "It crosses _several _lines, actually!"

"Fine. Don't come to me about minor incidents, then. But Merlin, mark my words, if someone hurts you, and it is serious, and you don't tell me, there will be hell to pay." He's deadly serious, his voice even and cold and unwavering. He looks you in the eye as he speaks and enunciates each of his words. There is no mistaking what he says.

You swallow. "Yes, sire. I understand."

"You're mine, Merlin. I won't stand for people hurting you."

"Yes, Arthur."

He stands. "I suppose I'll have that conversation with Iorwick now." He heads to the door.

"Don't piss him off too much," you call after him.

Arthur turns back slightly. "No promises." He lets the door slam closed behind him.

You bite your lip. Damn king.

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**A/N: THIS IS**

**kIND OF aWFUL and all over the place **

**god I feel really bad, I got so many amazing reviews on the first chapter (many by a lot of my favorite merlin writers? like holy crap what are you guys doing reading my stuff dont you have fics with 200+ reviews to update or something geez)**

**but i knew that if i didn't update this soon i would? just not update (and we all know my track record for updating [hint: i don't]) and just ugh dumb story**

**in other news**

**i have decided to convert this very fic into a hurt/comfort anthology of sorts where i'll drop in a one-shot of merlin getting hurt every so often so i don't end up with 80 h/c oneshots **

**if some of you don't know there was a hurricane where i lived this past weekend and i spent many hours with out internet so, naturally, i wrote fanfiction so I'll try and stagger uploads this week**

**thank you for reading! you deserve an award for making it this far and i will attempt to update at least semi regularly **


	3. Growing Pains

_Summary: Merlin has a crippling headache. _

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He feels the headache spread.

It had been there all day, a lingering thought when he had gone to bed and had moved to make itself known when he had woken up, a slight, nagging, whisper. He thought he would be fine, it would go away as the day wore on, but, of course, Merlin has no such luck. What had been a mere pinprick has swelled into a steady pounding in the very depths of his skull, rattling his brain.

Merlin lifts a hand and paws at his hair, as though he could feel the headache like it's a wound, a tangible injury. He's stopped short in the corridor, a basket of laundry on his hip that desires folding. He's glad Arthur doesn't plan on training today; Merlin doesn't think he can take the pummeling.

He gathers himself, face still furrowed, and heads to Arthur's room. He doesn't knock, of course, and besides, he isn't there anyway. Merlin is thankful that the prat's not around to bother him and tease him and throw things at his ringing head.

He drops the laundry on the table in the centre of the room and drags the chair over to take a seat. Merlin lays out the assorted garments, folding and sorting and when he gathers a large enough pile, he moves to put the clothes away.

The task does nothing to alleviate his headache, but doesn't aggravate it either, which he supposes is the best he can ask for. But then pain flares behind his eyes as he's crossing the room and he drops the shirt he was holding and clasps his hands to the side of his head. A sound a bit like a moan escapes his lips and this can't be an earthly headache, he feels it too much. It must be related to his magic. Well. That's what Gaius had said when Merlin complained, that his magic was changgrow and growing.

He sighs. Of course. Isn't it always his magic?

The pain passes and Merlin stoops to pick up the shirt. He holds the crumpled pile between two fingers and shakes it out before draping it over the table for re-folding.

The door opens and Arthur enters and stops at the sight of Merlin. He frowns, almost pouting and surveys the folded clothes.

"Shouldn't you be doing that in the laundry room?" he asks with all the preciseness of a man who knows he's right.

Merlin _should _be folding in the laundry room, but he couldn't. The laundresses kept all the windows wide open and spoke loudly and he had stepped in there for a moment and had felt like he would combust from within.

"Oh." He looks down. "'Spose so." He goes to gather the clothes but hopes Arthur won't make him move. He figures he could fold down in his chambers, where it's pleasantly dark, if he's asked to leave.

The prince waves him off. "No use going down now, Merlin, just stay. But for next time, remember."

Merlin nods, and winces. "Yes, thank you, sire."

Arthur eyes him. "You all right?"

Merlin gestures, then shrugs. "Headache."

Concern definitely does _not _flash in the prince's expression. "Well," he says. "Good thing it's just folding. And when you're finished with that, you can get my dinner."

Merlin dips his head. "Yes, sire."

No banter today, no snide remarks from either parties. Merlin figures he could try if provoked but he knows his heart wouldn't be in it. He's happy that Arthur is respecting his uncomfortableness for once, instead of preying on it. He resumes his folding and Arthur plucks a heavy volume from a shelf, as well as a short ream of assorted papers. The prince drops into the chair adjacent to Merlin and flips through the pages.

After all the clothes are folded sharply and put into their respective places, Merlin leaves to get Arthur's food. He hopes the prince gives him the night off because Merlin feels just about ready to drop off. It's a stifling kind of headache, one he knows that won't dim with anything but a solid night of sleep.

He manages to balance Arthur's plate, goblet, and pitcher of wine without dropping anything, and then bring it back to Arthur himself. The prince looks up and shoves everything unceremoniously to the opposite side of the table. "You know, you _are_ looking a bit pale. Perhaps you should get some more sun."

"Okay. Sure. Fine." God, his _head_. Every sight and sound is magnified tenfold, from Arthur's chewing to the candles and the light of the flaming, setting sun that pours through the windows in barrels.

Drumming. Someone, some_thing_, is pounding on the membrane of Merlin's brain, incessant and perpetual, deep rooted and absolute and Merlin, Merlin has known pain. Physical and emotional but this pain is intangible, it is coming from within himself and his is thrumming.

"Merlin?"

He jerks forward and with a trembling hand, pours Arthur his goblet of wine. But the dam inside him shatters and he veers off and there's burgundy liquid all over and Arthur is yelling, his voice _in_ his ears, angry, but slowed down and not registering. Merlin feels his body give out, unable to fight anymore. His vision is dark gray mottled over and he thinks he's falling but he can't tell.

* * *

He comes to violently, as is typical of passing out. He feels the hard stone under him and there's a fraction of a moment where he's dreadfully disoriented and _oh his head_. It throbs like a torn-open wound but at the same time is muffled. He opens his eyes.

"-–hear me? Merlin? _Merlin_?"

Arthur is swimming right above him, face closed and drenched in worry and...wine. "_Merlin!_"

"'m okay."

"I'm getting Gaius."

"Arthur, no––! Don't bother him. Arthur, I'm alright." His voice strengthens a bit.

The prince sits back on his haunches, looking down at his manservant. "Are you prone to fits? Because, if you are, I didn't know. I doubt you'd have been hired if you were, but––"

"What?" Merlin frowns. "No, I'm not prone to fits."

"What do you call _that, _then?" Merlin is more than a little amused at the fact that Arthur is more concerned than he is, but also quite touched.

"That? I call _that_ one hell of a headache."

"A _headache_? You've been incapacitated by a _headache_? Merlin." Arthur eyes him.

Merlin allows himself a smirk. "'s a really bad headache."

"You idiot. Why didn't you say anything?"

"Just a headache."

"Just a headache? From being hit over the head so many times, I bargain."

"From being hit over the head so many times, _by you_. Prat. Insulting an ill man while he still lays on the floor. That's low, Arthur, even for you."

"Oi!" But his heart isn't in it. His heart is back there, back watching Merlin shake a spill wine everywhere and his heart is still watching Merlin's eyes roll into his head and his heart is watching as Merlin falls crumpled to the floor and _convulsed_, like his entire body was fighting within him.

"If you're ill, next time, you should just say so." Arthur's voice is quiet.

Merlin swallows, Adam's apple bobbing under his neckerchief. "Okay."

"D'you think you can stand?"

"I can try."

Arthur helps Merlin to his feet, both of them moving excruciatingly slow, until Merlin is upright on his feet. He teeters and sways, but does not fall. Arthur is a firm brace against him.

"Let's get you to Gaius."

Merlin doesn't argue. He lets himself be led through darkening corridors and down staircases. His head still pulses, still strikes violently at times making his face twist. His stomach rolls and by the time he and Arthur reach the threshold to Gaius's chambers, Merlin's vision is graying at the edges and the pain is coming in waves. He hears Arthur speaking to Gaius in rapid sentences, and he's deposited on the edge of a bed.

He hears people talking but doesn't make sense of their words. A glass phial is placed into his grip lot he's not sure what to do with it. Someone uncorks it and a vile taste fills his mouth. He coughs and sputters but most if the medicine makes its way down. He's lowered onto the bed, pillow cushioning his aching head, and he's out soon after.

Merlin wakes three times. He comes to retching in a cold sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead, sometimes spouting nonsense phrases. The illness is chewing him to bits, his body fighting his magic and magic fighting right back. His eyes glaze over gold at erratic intervals, but his magic is confined to his body, no objects flying around or tapestries catching fire.

He awakens, finally, well into the next day, late afternoon, the sun on the brink of setting. Everything is hazy and heavy, but his head no longer feels as if it's being split open, and that's all Merlin cares about. Gaius is glad Merlin pulled through (but of course he'd be okay). He doesn't, however, know what it means for Merlin and his magic. He compares it to growing pains and Merlin hopes that it doesn't occur too often.

Arthur stops by for a visit. The image of Merlin's unmoving form on his bedroom floor haunted him all day, and his servant's absence was pointedly noticed. He's incredibly relieved that Merlin is all right, but instead acts terribly cross over his wine-soiled clothing.

"Wine stains are impossible to get out, I'll have you know. You ruined my best shirt. I would gander that you're not even ill, just hiding so you won't have to face my wrath."

Merlin gives a tired grin. "I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you with my ill-timed sickness, sire. I'll try and be considerate next time."

Arthur narrows his gaze. "You're not sorry."

"You're right, I'm anything but."

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for reading! Feedback is much appreciated!**


	4. Atrophy

**Contains harsh language and bad writing.**

* * *

_Summary: When Merlin is kidnapped, Arthur lets his manservant know how much he means to him._

* * *

Merlin is torn from oblivion, thrust into wakefulness by a nightmare that in the moment seems far worse than whatever is waiting for him in the present. He forgets the dream immediately upon waking, a sharp intake of breath passing through his cracked lips.

He keeps his eyes shut as he goes through the task of orienting himself, taking stock of all his limbs and body parts and making sure that everything is still there.

His face is pressed to the straw-littered stone floor, but his arms are still chained above his head and his shoulders have gone numb hours ago. His legs are twisted under him but he. He can't. He can't move.

In a fit of panic, Merlin's eyes shoot open. All around him is the, impenetrable darkness that threatens to suffocate him. He chokes on the foul air and something in the back of his mind kicks him twice, screaming "_Focus!_' loudly as an attempt to shake some sense into him.

He forces himself to take deep, even breaths as his eyes adjust. His head is still ringing and the plastered straw is sticky. Merlin slowly shifts his legs into a marginally more comfortable position, almost crying out in the process. He opens and closes his hands and he thinks, that'll do with the moving. His ribs ache, even with minimal pressure being applied and he can't get a look look at the wound tearing up this thigh but he's fairly confident it's hideous and oozing.

Time passes differently in this cell, different from how it does in the outside world. Merlin doesn't know how long he's been in here, doesn't know how long it's been since he's seen––

_Arthur_.

Days, maybe? Weeks? He doesn't remember much, he had been trailing fifteen feet or so behind the rest of the patrol and someone sidled up behind him and knocked him off his horse and there was nothing, just darkness that would never be satisfied.

He had awoken in this cell and They, with their mass and their manacles that burn scars into the fragile skin of his wrists, They had screeched at him, asking questions he would not answer and had hit him when he didn't, he screamed until even his voice had fled and he screamed after that and he was half certain he had not stopped screaming since.

He here he has remained, in limbo, in an in-between prison. He protects a king who may not be coming to get him, but it's all alright, to Merlin, as long as Arthur is safe.

He will do anything to ensure that Arthur is safe.

But then there's the abrasive sound of metal on metal near his door and all he can do is curl up into himself as the door is torn open and light assaults his retinas.

The brute that they sent stomps over to the wall and soppily unchains Merlin from the wall, fumbling the key a few times. The man is saying something but Merlin can hardly hear. A foot impacts his side and the air is wrenched from his lungs and "_Oi you! Get up!_" but he physically can't, he just scrabbles on his knees toward the door but his leg gives out and he collapses, not even halfway there. He's plucked from the ground and dragged like a rag doll into a torch-lit corridor. There are people, bodies pressed from every angle and a constant _clang _of––of––

_swords_.

Merlin lifts his head slightly, attempting to open his eyes wider and half the men in the hall are adorned with the unmistakable red of Camelot.

_"Arthur!_ " his lips move, but out comes not a sound. "_Arthur! Arthur! _Arthur!" Finally.

Adrenaline surges through him and he struggles at the man with the iron grip holding him fast. "Let me go," he chokes. "Let go of me––" He lashes out with his hands and scabbed fists, not knowing if he's doing any damage at all, but then the pressure around his frayed collar vanishes and he drops, cracking his head against the floor.

His vision absolutely _spins_ and he grips at the wall with desperate fingers but he just manages to fall flat on his back. He stares at the dusty ceiling and doesn't bother getting up again because he came, he came, Arthur came for him, he actually came.

* * *

Someone is speaking in his ear. Merlin knows that it's words, but sentences ram into each other and jumble up and fall over into a pile on the floor and it's just noise to him, meaningless noise. And yet, it's comforting to hear the babble, it's familiar which is precious in a strange place.

_Merlin_.

That there he can make out. That bit is his name.

_Merlin_, it says. _Wake up_.

No, he argues. No, certainly not.

_Merlin, you have to wake up._

No, thank you, I'm quite alright where I am.

_Merlin_. Pause. _Please. Please, Merlin, wake up._

His eyelids twitch. The particular voice has stopped, but there are others, farther away and a bit muddled. One of them is reasoning with the original speaker.

"Panicking will help no one, Arthur..."

_Arthur_.

Merlin opens his eyes and above him is the endless expanse of the bluest sky he's ever seen and he chokes back a painful sob because, oh, god, the _sky._

He never thought he'd see it again.

And there, just in his line of sight, is another thing he never thought he'd lay eyes on again.

Well, not really a thing: a person.

Arthur.

The king stares at him with wide, glistening eyes. The breath he lets out sounds like the sob Merlin tried to suppress.

"You _idiot_," he says, shaking his head. "What on earth did you go and get yourself kidnapped for?"

But Merlin––Merlin just laughs. It's breathy and rough and it _hurts_, but he can't help it. He laughs because of the sky and because of Arthur and because of the fact that he is so blissfully alive.

"You came," he manages.

"Of course I came. Now, stop laughing, you'll rupture something." Arthur doesn't see what's so funny. They all may have gotten out of the fortress alive, but in no means unscathed. And Merlin still has the journey to Camelot to make and his injuries are bad, to say the least.

Merlin's vision swims in from of him but he's so damn happy that he can't even care.

"Thank you," he manages before succumbing back to the darkness.

* * *

The healing process is a long one.

It's been nearly two weeks since the party has returned to Camelot. Merlin has been confined to his bed for nearly the entirety of it by Gaius, for good reason, too. He suffered through a fever for three days while the infection in his leg passed and he had come close to dying.

Arthur had hardly left the physician's chambers during those first days, hands always holding Merlin's. He was there when Merlin sputtered nonsense, the fever dreams taking hold of his sanity and making him hallucinate. He held him when he thrashed, leaving bruises on his narrow shoulders and he was there when he awoke in the night, screaming at demons in his sleep.

"Will he pull through, Gaius?" Arthur had asked on the second day, looking haggard as ever.

"Let us hope so, sire."

And then Merlin's fever broke on the third day, but Gaius kept him asleep to aid the healing process, and Arthur had approached him.

"The manacles," he had said simply, for he had noticed the burns when he had rescued him, though they were wrapped in bandages now. "They were, I presume, to put a lock on his magic." All very business like, all very matter of fact.

Gaius looked at him closely. "Yes," he said. "That does seem to be the case."

Arthur nodded then, a slight bob of his head. "Let me know if anything changes."

"Of course, sire."

* * *

Merlin is fully awake by the fourteenth day. Everything still hurts and is stiff, but thanks to Gaius, he feels thousands of times better. Merlin is propped up by a set of pillows and his bed is by the window where he can stare outside to his heart's content. Arthur sits on a chair beside him, his feet up on the edge of a table, a half-eaten apple in his hand. He hasn't visited in three days. Busy with kingly duties, of course.

There's a stretch of silence, then:

"Arthur," Merlin asks. "How long was I in the dungeon?"

Arthur bites the fruit. "Five days."

"Five days," Merlin repeats. Pause. "It felt longer."

"Yes," Arthur agrees, "It did." He had spent hours waiting in agony as well. Hours searching and hunting and praying and begging. "But we found you."

"You found me." Merlin reaches across the bedspread and takes Arthur's free hand with both of his own. "You found me."

Arthur relinquishes his hand willingly but watches Merlin closely. "Of course we did. I hope you didn't think I would leave you to rot. Terribly hard to find useless servants these days."

"I never gave you up, either." Merlin sounds far away. Arthur knows part of him is still in that damn dungeon. "I didn't answer a single one of their questions."

"Yes, and it almost got you killed."

"Well, of course. I'd die before giving you up."

Arthur frowns and takes his hand back. "You can't just _say_ that sort of stuff."

Merlin looks at him. "Why not?"

"Most servants––they––you're so–– You are infuriating, you know that? A proper pain in the ass."

"Thank you."

"Wasn't a compliment."

"You wouldn't have rescued me if I wasn't a pain in the ass. Besides. I would've escaped."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Eventually."

"You were doing an excellent job, too, when we found you, crumpled on the floor."

"I would have done it."

"Of course, Merlin."

Arthur looks at the apple for a moment and then launches it across the room. It hits the door with an ugly sound, bits of flesh splattering about. Merlin watches him evenly.

"Gaius won't appreciate that."

"Do you always have to be an insufferable, _selfless_ bastard, Merlin? Always? Every fucking time?"

Merlin gets quiet. "I'm incredibly selfish, Arthur."

"Really? Being tortured for information in a dungeon is your idea of selfish?"

Merlin sighs and closes his eyes. "Arthur. I lie. I manipulate people. I hurt them. In order to get what I need, what I want."

"Which is what, exactly?"

"You."

Arthur blinks. "_Me_?"

"You, alive and content to be exact, but yes, you. You mean a great deal to me, Arthur. I have told you this repeatedly."

"And what, you mean shit to me?"

"Do I?"

"_Hell_ no, Merlin––You just, you go off into danger, to protect me, or whatnot, without ever thinking of the consequence. You––you mean a lot to me, too. And I can't keep seeing you hurt because of me. I can't–– I can't _lose_ you."

Merlin's eyes are open, his lips parted slightly. He reaches over to take Arthur's hand again, but the king shrugs him off.

"I'll always protect you, Arthur."

The king runs a hand through his hair. "I know. I just wish you wouldn't."

* * *

**A/N: _fanfiction_**

**Feedback much appreciated! Thank you for reading.**


	5. Unwavering

**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin. (heaves a sigh)**

* * *

_Summary: Merlin nearly drowns in a river, and is saved by Arthur._

* * *

The flurried panic flees all at once, taking the very air in his lungs with it. He can't gasp, less he breathe that which is not air and quicken his inevitable fate. He drifts, strangely calm as the river roars overhead. He's stopped scrabbling at branches just out of reach and instead focuses on himself. His limbs, splayed, and refracted through the water. The tension that comes without breathing.

He's being taken. He reasons he should fight. He's never stopped before, he has never been idle, he has _always_ fought. Always. Without reason, without questioning. He's not exactly one for giving up, he wouldn't last long in this job if he was.

But he likes to drift.

Under the surface, he's being pushed along as easily and as unresistingly as a piece of driftwood. _Come on_, he says. _Move_. You'll die down here.

You're not allowed to die down here.

_Yes, fine, alright_. He tries to move his arm, but it feels like he's moving through sludge. Painful sludge, so he stops. Kicking doesn't get him anywhere, either. He feels so _heavy_, like stones weigh his pockets or that he has a skeleton of lead.

Where has his air gone, so readily? The burning in his lungs has mellowed out and migrated to a dullness in the base of his throat. His vision is graying.

Get up. Get up.

Oh, darling, what's the point? The water moves so fast, they'll never find you in any case.

Just drift. Let your eyes close.

Get up. Get _up_.

_Get up_.

No. No, thank you.

Eyes close. A sigh, water where it shouldn't be. Choking. Drifting. Get up.

Fading . . . .

A viselike grip on an already injured wrist. A tug. Ow. _Ow_.

Being hauled though the air, dragged along a beach with coarse sand of small pebbles that pulls at skin.

Wake up, you damned idiot.

So tired. So impossibly heavy, now without the support of ever-flowing water.

_Wake up, you damned idiot!_

There's shouting and shaking and he's awake, coughing, sputtering, he feels like he's drowning in reverse, all the pain he hadn't experienced comes at once, right now. He rolls onto his stomach, retching, light headed, lungs and stomach emptying themselves onto a sparse patch of grass. God. _God_. He has swallowed the whole ocean.

He gasps, greedily taking in lungfuls of air like a man half-starved faced with food. He coughs again, water still vacating his body, shudders running through him. His wrist screams.

"––idiot, you god forsaken _fool_! What were you _thinking_––?"

––Freezing, now, so cold. Trembles run up and down his entire body. So cold. He so cold.

Arthur. Arthur is still talking. Ranting, really. Can't focus. Too cold.

He stares up at the gray sky through half lidded eyes. So tired. So heavy.

Cold.

"No, no, _no! _You listen to me when I'm lecturing you."

"Well. Well, I did just nearly drown." Voice sounds. Gravely. Breathing labored. Head light. Will he ever stop talking?

"You say that like you _exempt _from something, _Mer_lin." That's a no.

Breathy laugh. Arthur. Oh, Arthur.

Turns his head with much effort [to look at him]. His hair, wet and plastered to forehead. Dripping. Bastard. Saving everything that comes to harm. Bastard.

"Bastard."

"Wh––? _Excuse me_?"

Merlin reaches up and brushes a bit of water from Arthur's jaw. He wants to say something.

Arthur stops. Looks down

"You're freezing."

A vague gesture. Water. Cold. Et cetera.

Something is draped over him and Arthur leaves his line of sight. There is talking, muffled voices, "build a fire,".

Arthur returns. Merlin looks up. "Arthur." A sigh.

"We need to talk about this obvious death wish of yours, _Mer_lin." A cloak is draped over his shoulders.

"Arthur." Oh, Arthur.

"What?"

Blue eyes connect. Anger, worry, fear, interchange with exhaustion, pain, relief.

Two words.

"Thank you."

* * *

**A/N: (sips tea and looks down at lap) perhaps I should address the, ah, season and actual finale of Merlin. Perhaps I should just. I dunno. Pretend it never happened? (I am okay with this.)**

**I don't know what everyone else is doing, but I am going to continue to write Merlin fanfiction. I like reading it. I like writing it. It'll all have to be AUs from now on, but I can live with that. So.**

******I hope the end of the show isn't the end to a rather lovely fandom. I don't think it has to be, either! (Let's be real the Merlin fandom is like 800 years old already okay, i think we can overcome)**

**Thank you for reading. Thank you for continuing to do so. Feedback is always appreciated.**


	6. Caged

**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin. T for references for reference to torture.**

* * *

_Summary: Merlin is haunted by his time held captive by slave traders._

* * *

His hands were bleeding.

Some of the skin on his palms had rubbed off and his knuckles were scraped up. The makeshift bandages he had wrapped around them were filthy and always unraveled. He needed to use his hands, to scrabble at the bars that encased him, to pull at the restraints around his ankles and neck, to pick at food that was in various states of decay. Making a fist hurt, but it was a controllable sort of pain, unlike his other injuries. He has little crescent scars on the inside of his hands from where he squeezed hard enough to draw blood, squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. He still hasn't shaken the habit, always making a fist when he has to focus or when he's frustrated or when he's in the market and passes by animals in cages.

They had seen the damage.

They had seen the cage barely large enough for him to sit up in, with soiled hay smattered its base. They had seen the chains that encircled his ankles and his neck, but they did not see the faint runes cast into the metal. They had seen his hollow eyes and bleeding hands and bleeding lip and the bleeding cut on his cheek and they had seen blood leaking from the manacles. They had seen the mottled bruises painting his torso in various stages of healing and severity.

They had seen the way he shied away from the light of their torches, they had seen the way he huddled into the farthest corner of the cage and how he had wept into his macerated hands, from pain or fear or joy or pure relief.

They had seen how he laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, and how he did not talk for three days.

And, they had witnessed his healing.

But it's all passed now, long enough for the worst of his bruises to fade and for the wounds on his hands to scar over and for his magic to come back, not in floods or in waves, but in gentle splashes, building back up to what it once was (but they could not know that).

He sits in the armoury, sharpening a sword, and his hand slips. The cut is thin, but long, right across his palm, passing through one of the small, curved scars. And it bleeds. It drips blood onto the sword and sharpening stone and onto the floor.

He stares at his hand and he remembers tearing off strips off his shirt with his teeth and trying to tie them around the scratches that were oozing blood and pus. He remembers the scabs being torn off as he pitched toward the ground, skidding against the fine pebbles of the road. He clenches his fist and watches blood collect and pool and drip.

Arthur walks in, then. He doesn't like not knowing where Merlin is for too long.

"Merlin?" he calls, seeing the slightly hunched form sitting on a bench. His manservant is far away, however; he's back in the cage.

Arthur knows immediately that something's wrong, from across the room. He crosses the armoury in a few brisk paces and then sees the blood, violently red, like the red of Camelot only so much more sinister.

He swiftly drops to his knees directly in front of Merlin. He encases firsts with his hands. "Merlin," he says softly. "It's alright." _Merlin_, he wants to whisper, _come back_.

Merlin blinks slowly and the armoury is back, along with Arthur holding scarred hands with scarred hands. No darkness, no harsh voice and no boots to the chest. He relaxes his grip and allows Arthur to examine the laceration.

Arthur brings his hand closer. "Just a scratch," he says after a moment's look. "Nothing Gaius can't fix."

Another blink. "I believe there is little Gaius can't fix."

A small smile. "Well, you'd be right about that. Here, leave the sword, I'll have someone else take care of it. Let's go get you patched up." _Come back to me, Merlin. _

Gaius purses his lips and cleans the cut and applies a salve to it, wrapping it up in a clean, white bandage. He departs from his chambers to do his rounds, leaving Arthur and Merlin sitting on the same side of a table piled high with books and various herbs.

The window is open. A cool breeze stirs up a few papers.

Merlin stares intently at his hands for a few moments, examining the snugly tied bandage. After a moment, he speaks: "They threatened to cut off my fingers."

Arthur blinks in surprise. No matter how hard any of them tried, they couldn't get him to talk about what happened in the cages.

He clears his throat. "If I misbehaved, if I talked back, if I tried to escape, try anything. . . try anything _funny, _they said, they'd chop off all my fingers and hen my hands."

"You don't have to, you know. You don't have to talk. It's all right."

Merlin tears his gaze from his extremities to look at Arthur, study at him with the same raptness used to inspect his hand. Arthur felt like he was being scrutinized. "I know I don't have to. I think, though," Merlin takes a shuddering breath, "I think it may be time."

Arthur swallows and nods. "If you're absolutely certain. You can stop at anytime." He takes Merlin's uninjured hand in his. Quietly, so quietly, he says, "I'm here."

Merlin squeezes Arthur's hand. "I know."

A speck of red appears on the bandage. Merlin opens his mouth and tells him everything.

* * *

**A/N: Hello! Sorry I haven't been updating, I've been finding it rather hard to like anything I've written lately. This oneshot is a bit different from the others, which is a joke because there is exactly no amount of continuity in my writing style, so, there you go. Yes, yes, I know I did torture and kidnapping like, two chapters ago (shhh). I'll think of something unique soon, okay, I don't think I'll run out of ways to hurt Merlin anytime soon. (I have a list of 116 hurt/comfort prompts actually, that's where this one came from)**

**Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is much appreciated! **


	7. Moderation

**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin. T for language.**

* * *

_Summary: Arthur is injured by a beast, and Merlin overdoes it with the magical healing._

* * *

His skin is ashen.

He's sitting with back against the trunk of a wide tree. His eyes are shut, jaw tight, and breathing short but controlled breaths through his nose. His hand is bunched in the torn fabric of his trousers. "_Merlin_," he grits out.

"I'm working on it, Arthur. Just keep still, I'll be done in a moment." Merlin swallows. The wound is particularly nasty; no major blood vessels have been pierced, nor has bone been exposed, but the griffin's talon has punctured through several layers of muscle, cutting a swift gash through the king's right thigh that's still bleeding and god damn it why is it still bleeding.

Merlin glances up, taking in the king's closed face. Camelot is still over a day's journey away, and Arthur is in no situation to be riding at all, let alone riding fast.

"How bad is it?" Arthur's tone is quiet and subdued. He doesn't open his eyes.

Merlin bites his lip. "It's––well. You've had worse, I'm sure, but––"

"_Mer_lin."

A sigh. "It's deep. I don't have the...necessary healing supplies here, with me. I could bandage it, apply a poultice if I can find the right herbs, but that would be all until we get back to Camelot, and I doubt you can ride..."

"Can't you just, I don't know, magic it better?" An offhand comment.

Merlin blinks, then frowns. He supposes he _could_, but he didn't really want to use magic like that unless it's absolutely necessary. Putting down the griffin took a lot out of him, fatigue weighs his limbs and exhaustion stains his movements and thoughts, though it's just late afternoon.

But this is _Arthur_, who is growing paler every moment, whose face is screwed up with pain.

Arthur always comes first.

Merlin runs a hand through his hair. "It may take a few tries."

Arthur makes a half-hearted gesture but doesn't say anything. With another bracing breath, Merlin gets to work.

He kneels in front of Arthur and places a hand just above the angry, weeping wound. He shuts his eyes up tight and reaches within himself, coaxing out his magic. _Come on_, he thinks. _I need you again_. The magic rises to meet him with few complaints and Merlin takes it, takes the magic thrumming through his veins and he weaves it expertly. Words pour from his mouth and light pours from his hand into the wound and Arthur flinches as magic meets flesh and is transfered into him. He feels no pain as muscle knits itself back together and skin flakes over, red and raw and new.

But even once the worst of the wound is healed, Merlin doesn't relinquish the magic. The shiny skin loses its sheen and Arthur feels some of the aches of blood loss lift and he's almost back to the complete working condition he was before the skirmish with the creature.

"Merlin," he starts.

At once, the magic is cut off. The light dissipates and Merlin closes his hand with a quiet gasp. He opens his eyes in time for Arthur to watch gold fade from blue irises. "Did––did it work?" he stammers out.

Arthur looks at him, a bit amazed. "Yes, it worked, almost completely healed. I figure I can even ride without too much discomfort––Merlin. Merlin, are you all right?"

Merlin has sunken back on his haunches. He's taken on the gray sheen that Arthur recently left behind, he blinks rapidly, staring at the ground, a hand pressed to his forehead, breathing labored. "I'm not––I'm not entirely sure. Give me a moment."

"What do you mean you're not sure?" Concern, a touch of impatience. "Merlin?"

Merlin looks up, surprise staining his expression. He looks like he wants to say something, but his eyes roll back into his head and he pitches forward.

"_Merlin_!"

* * *

He awakens painfully slowly, swimming in an out of consciousness for a while before grasping onto something more substantial, but he loses it just as it pulls him out of heavy waters.

It feels like something is pressing on his eyelids, like his tongue is woolen and like cotton is stuffed into his ears. His limbs are made of lead and someone is clearly drumming on the inside of his head. Merlin shifts slightly, swathed in something warm, and he hears himself groan.

"Well, it's about time."

Merlin opens his eyes.

He's turned, facing a small fire that's mostly kindling at this point. Arthur perches beside the flame, coaxing it to grow, carefully feeding it larger twigs. Merlin can't tell by the hue of the sky if it's dawn or eventide, but he figures, by Arthur building the fire, that the sun has just set.

He reaches up to rub his eyes.

"Do you know how hard it is to travel on a horse with a dead weight?"

Merlin frowns. "Difficult, I suppose?"

"Rather." Arthur feeds the last of the sticks into the fire and saunters over to wear Merlin lies. "Only covered about half the distance we should have, thanks to you. I swear, you make a habit of fainting everywhere. You're such a _girl_, Merlin." There's no humour in his voice.

Merlin just lies there, staring up at the darkening sky through the lattice of tree branches. God, god, god, that's right. The griffin. And Arthur's leg. And his magic––

"How's your leg?"

Arthur gives him a bewildered look. "Fine. Great. I think you fixed every small injury I've ever sustained, actually. Or, you must have, seeing as you _passed out_."

Merlin groans again. "I knew the magic was a bad idea."

"Then for gods' sake, why did you _do _it?"

"Because you were hurt."

"Merlin. That happened yesterday. You've been asleep for a day and a half."

Yikes. "Well. I didn't mean for _that_ to happen. I just wanted to close the wound enough for you to walk on it. It's just... my magic gets away from me, sometimes. Takes on a mind of it's own. Does as it pleases. You know."

"Actually, I really don't."

An irritable sigh. "Well. It happens. Not often, though."

"It better not happen often."

"It _doesn't._"

The fire crackles, glowing bright and warm. Arthur draws his knees to his chest, then, with a blink, turns to Merlin. "Gods––do you need anything? There's a bit of food left, you haven't eaten all day. Gods. Or––"

"Just water, please."

Arthur fetches the water skin from his bag and helps gather Merlin into a half-sitting position. Merlin takes a few sips, careful not to chug the canteen and end up coughing and sputtering water all over them both. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and gives the water skin back to Arthur. "Thank you." He nestles deeper into the blanket.

"We should get some food into you."

"I'm not sure that would be wise."

"You need to eat."

"And I will. Just. Not right now." Exhaustion is tugging back, threatening to send him back to sleep. Everything has gained a bit of fuzziness. Merlin allows his head to loll against his chest and for his eyes to close and wonders if he'll wake up in the morning, or if Arthur will end up hurling his dead weight back to Camelot.

"I'm not lugging you're unconscious weight for the rest of the journey," Arthur says as if he read his mind. "If you will not awaken in the morning, I'm leaving you here, for bandits and griffins to do with as they please."

Merlin allows a wide grin to break his face. "Fair enough."

Arthur snorts and gives the fire a prod. It snaps back angrily and hisses. "Merlin?"

"Mmm?" He's fading.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For _healing_ me, what else?"

"Oh, that." Merlin shifts. "You're welcome, I suppose. Sorry about the passing out."

A sigh. "It's fine. Just. Work on controlling your magic, alright? I didn't make you court sorcerer to swoon about."

A light chuckle. "All right. Will do. Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"Good night."

"Good night, Merlin."

* * *

A/N: ARTHUR? GETTING HURT? WHAT

ha ha, nope, I just wanted to make Merlin faint.

um um um! I don't like this chapter as much as the previous one, but I didn't want to write a chapter, and just, well, not post it. i promise the next one will (probably) be better. wow a fast update AND arthur getting hurt, i must be falling ill or something

so ok

I'm really just taken aback by all the comments and reviews this fic has gotten, especially on the last chapter. It's really overwhelming and makes me too happy for words that people are reading and enjoying my writing. Just... wow! gosh! so many nice things being said! i read every review and stare at the screen grin like an idiot (hey do authors even reply to reviews? i didn't actually know that was a thing until like twenty minutes ago but do like people do that? i don't even know OTL) especially because some of my favorite writers are commenting IT'S JUST... SO COOL...

thank you all so much for the great feedback, and thank you for reading! (!)


	8. Petrichor

**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin. T for language **

* * *

_Summary: When a patrol is attacked in the woods and Arthur is threatened, Merlin releases his inner badass despite his injuries. _

* * *

His knees hurt.

The pain is dull and familiar; he had sustained skinned knees often in his youth and, embarrassingly enough, even to this day, what with his habit of falling over all the time. Twigs and pebbles bite into the torn flesh as he heaves himself onto all fours. He centres on his knees because, while they're not the most prominent of all his aches, the pain specific. He knows it. He uses the singular pain as a lens of with which to focus, sort of like pinching yourself to pay attention.

He feels his magic flow in his veins, starting from his knees and moving from his throbbing, protesting wrist. It circulates, passing through his core and moving to every part of his body. His breath evens out and he's so intent on one concept that he hears Arthur's warning call of "_Merlin!_" moments too late. He doesn't have the time to brace himself as a foot comes in sharp constant with his side, severing his magic connection.

The world is lost immediately in the surge of agony that follows the kick. He doesn't even have time to yell in agony, just a sharp intake of air and an ugly groan on the exhale. He's knocked over to the base of a tree and he curls in on himself reflexively, gasping for lost breath.

The world swims before his eyes and he thinks he may hear Arthur yelling hoarsely in the background––

"Come over here and I _swear _on my mother's grave I will_––_"

––definitely Arthur, his rant cut off by a loud grunt of distinct pain.

Oh, _hell_ no.

Merlin's magic, frightened into hiding by the sudden pain, emerges then. His body is wrenched upwards with the force of it and he makes an absolute guttural noise in response.

"_Merlin_!"

No one messes with his king.

Pain and magic flow together in opposite currents, fighting together and become hard to differentiate, each amplifying the other with the added benefits of panic and anxiety. He pulls himself to his knees and looks up, eyes blindingly gold.

They're afraid of him. All of them. Not _for_ him, anymore, but _of _him. The bandits, the knights, Arthur. He feels their fear emanating from them in waves and he takes that fear and he weaves it within his self and focuses it throws out his hand and

lets

it

go.

The world around is blast straight to hell. Each individual bandit is blown backwards forcefully, hitting trees and splitting bark and sending up puffs of dirt into the air. Twigs and small pebbles and not so small pebbles rain down and the recently freed knights throw their arms above their heads to protect them.

It's all over as soon as its begun, but there's still a slight tremor in the earth.

Arthur surveys the damage with eyes as wide as saucers before turning to Merlin, who's terribly dazed but still upright.

"Bit of an over reaction, don't you think?" His voice is thin.

Merlin blink. "He hurt you."

Arthur gestures to the cut on his forehead that's wept several streaks of blood. "Just a scratch." Not the extent of his injuries, and Merlin knows it and Arthur knows he knows it.

Subconsciously, none of them have yet approached Merlin. They do get closer, arranged in a lose half-circle around him but still several arms lengths away at the closest.

"Well." The pain in his knees leaks back. "They're taken care of." He still feels their fear; it's smothering.

"No kidding, mate." Sir Gawaine, his voice unsurprisingly devoid of humour. A slight bruise begins to form under one of his eyes. Merlin wonders if he had had that before, or if it had been a result of raining debris.

Merlin's face changes then. His magic retreats back to wherever it comes from and he's left, battered and yet somehow still upright.

His knees hurt; the fabric of his trousers is dirty and cut up and probably bloodstained. Ruined, in other words. Of course. It's not like he has much clothing to begin with.

He's not anticipating the pain in his torso, but that comes next and if he thinks that the word 'pain' can be associated with both his knees and his ribcage, well, there really needs to be a new word. This isn't pain. This is. This _is_.

No one's moved, and he's the first, faltering and falling forward. He catches himself before face meets ground with his uninjured wrist and everything, everything is farther away than he had originally thought. The knights must be at the other end of the clearing; hell, they must be at the other end of the forest, for all he knows.

He doesn't know. Anything. But the concept of absolute _pain_, not just in his knees and chest and wrist, but his _veins_ hurt, scorched from where magic ran. His organs hurt, his bones hurt, his entire existence hurts. He knows pain, yes, and perhaps the idea that out there, somewhere, someone (a few someones) is calling his name.

He's face down on the ground without knowing how he got there. He breathes in the smell of damp earth and––by the gods––he's made it rain. The clouds are calling to him, swirling too high above, and the darkness reaches him first, like a tangible wall.

And they never stop calling his name.

When light assaults his eyes that he does not recall opening, time has passed (so much time) (too much time) (clearly not enough time) and they're still calling his name.

"Merlin."

"Merlin."

It's been four days, can you all just

"Shut _up_."

* * *

**A/N: ah! sorry for the unexpected hiatus! i've come down with a nasty case of The Writers' Block (achoo; stay away, you'll catch it) and everything i write just comes out awful, bland and flat and ugh, subpar, to say the least, and the fact is that the only way to cure writers block is to literally write yourself out of it, even when everything you write is utter crap. but. i think i _have_ written myself out of it (at least, that's how it appears, for the moment). I'm still not totally satisfied with this chapter, but I really wanted to post something, it's been a while.**

**I think the next chapter will be fluffier (oh god) maybe a continuation of this chapter (!) so. there's that.**

**thank you so much for sticking with this story and thank you so, so much for reading! feedback is absolutely appreciated!**


	9. Everything

**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin.**

* * *

_Summary: Merlin keeps having nightmares about burning at the stake and-what do you know-burns himself one day while tending to a fire. Thankfully, Arthur is there to comfort him and assure him everything will be alright._

* * *

And he was burning.

Flames reared up on all sides, walls of impenetrable anger, they turned first his boots to dust and disintegrated his skin. He tilted his head towards the sky and watched the sky through choking swirling smoke. He bared his neck, an animal led to slaughter, and he gave himself up to the god and the land and the people who believed he had betrayed them all.

And he felt panic in this moment, panic smothered by a forced sense of peace, of resignation to this face of his. But he is grateful for the fire that incinerates his eyes, for he cannot see the folded figures of those who have put him upon this pyre.

He awakes in a cold sweat, his sheets tangled around the foot of his narrow bed, his nightclothes sticking to his clammy flesh. He sits up rather violently, a hand to his head, breathing heavily.

_Just a dream!_ he thinks (shoutsyellsscreams).

He doesn't think about how, with a single misstep, it could quickly become a reality. Instead, he glances out the sliver of window at the still-dark sky and decides that he should try to get some sleep.

But sleep doesn't grace him with its presence. He spends the rest of the night with the blanket knotted in his fists, staring at the ceiling, until Gaius knocks on his door.

He dreads a day of chores on a few hours of sleep, but it's not like he hasn't done it before.

With a silent sigh, he gets out of bed.

* * *

He's tired.

No surprise, really; he's had three nearly sleepless nights filled with nightmares and thrashing and being strangled by bed sheets and waking up gasping covered in sweat. He's burning, always burning, each instance intense and _real_, like someone drops a lit candle on him while he sleeps. Even when he just dozes do the nightmares find him.

He's become slightly manic with the lack of sleep. Gaius had noticed, of course, and tried to force all sorts of sleeping draughts on him. The problem wasn't sleeping itself; Merlin could sleep, he could probably fall asleep right here, kneeling in front of the hearth in Arthur's chambers (though, not the best idea) it was what happened once he was asleep that was the problem. Gaius's draughts couldn't guarantee a dreamless sleep, and the ones that could were only supposed to be used in case of emergencies, for patients that were intense pain.

Merlin stifles a yawn. He decides that tonight he'll consult the grimoire and see if a magical cure exists for nightmares. If not, well. He's not _that _tired.

Using an iron poker, he stirs up the coals, trying to decide if there's life in this fire or if he'll need to add more fuel. The flames have gone lower than usual, he's been straying from the fire all day, tending to it as little with which he can get away, and he's wondering if Gaius is going to prepare dinner or if he'll have to nick something from the kitchen.

While he's thinking, he leans forward slightly, to turn up the coals in the back and he loses balance and how do these things even _happen?_ He flails out his arms and drops the poker and his arm comes in contact with a few stray embers that have wandered to the front of the gate and he doesn't scream. Doesn't. Scream.

A gasp passes through his lips, nothing loud, just a sharp intake of breath. He stares down at his forearm, and he's still kneeling too close to the fire, the stone biting at his knees through his breeches. He trembles slightly, pain not yet registering, though the skin has darkened already. He smells the faint odor of burning flesh, or that could be the dinner he recently brought up for Arthur, but in any case, images of pyres and chopped wood piling high fill his mind and the pain finally registers and his vision clouds gray around the edges and _no no I'm not a wizard you've got the wrong––_

"How long does it take to stoke a fire, _Mer_lin?"

His vision clears with a few blinks. Get a grip, he tells himself. "I. I. One moment, sire."

Arthur arches a brow, though Merlin can't see. "Everything alright over there? Have you forgotten how to tend to a fire? Even though you do it everyday, I wouldn't be surprised if you some how managed to mess up…."

Merlin hears a chair being scraped across the floor and a few muffled footsteps and move, you lardass, he's coming. But Merlin is still frozen to the hot stones, holding his arm away from his body.

"_Mer_lin? Did you hear me? Or have you gone deaf as well?––" Arthur's own intake of breath. "_Gods_. Don't––don't just _sit_ there!"

Merlin starts. "Oh, it's, it's fine, it's not too bad." But, for once, his heart isn't in it; his voice is thin.

Arthur shakes his head. "I didn't know injuring a limb could addle one's brain as well, but I suppose anything is possible with you." A sigh. "Get up, then."

Merlin can't. It's a mixture of the pain (which starts) and the shock, and he's rooted to the floor. He feels Arthur's arms under his own, pulling him somewhat to his feet and then plunking him down in the recently vacated seat. Merlin cradles his arm close to his chest but not touching. Arthur knocks around in the background, filling up a wide wooden bowl with cool water from a pitcher. He carefully carries it over and places it on the table beside Merlin.

"Let me see."

A half murmured protest.

"_Merlin_." A sigh. "Are we really going to do this every time you hurt yourself." (It's becoming a habit.)

Merlin swallows, not making eye contact with Arthur. There's a moment of hesitation before he finally hands over his arm. Arthur handles it with the utmost care, not poking or prodding, just looking. Part of Merlin's palm and a patch on the inside of his wrist has flushed and angry red. Arthur gently lowers his arm into the bowl without further irritation. He gets up and starts rifling around in a few drawers and cupboards. Merlin doesn't ask what he's looking for, but the relief from the water is instant. He still feels the dull throbbing, but it has lessened.

Merlin doesn't like burns. Burns _hurt_. A cut hurts too, yes, but it hurts and it hurts and then you wrap it and it stops hurting. Burns are absolutely _rude_. Even the slightest ones, from kitchen fires and hot pan grazes, make them selves known and loudly, shouting and shouting for attention. Wrapping helps, sometimes, but the best you can do is find cool running water and sit there until someone calls you away again. And then, shortly after, the burn is there again, calling and nagging and _hot_.

Arthur utters a quiet, yet triumphant, "_Aha!_"

Merlin tilts his head towards Arthur. "What have you got?" he asks.

Instead of answering, Arthur sits back in front of Merlin. In his hand, he holds a small container, which he promptly uncaps, and some waded up cloth. Inside the tin is a thin layer of a potent-smelling paste lines the sides and bottom. "There. I knew I had some left."

Merlin eyes it uneasily. "What's this?"

"Surprised you don't recognize it. It's Gaius's cure-all, for minor cuts and, as I recall, burns."

"How long have you had this?"

An impatient frown, with a dash of condescension. "Merlin."

"Just asking. You know, I could just, go to Gaius."

"You'd probably fall down two flights of stairs and get attacked by bandits."

"That seems rather unlikely."

"With you, nothing is unlikely." Arthur starts unwrapping the crumpled bit of cloth, which turns out to be several strips of bandages. "Gaius always sends a medical pack when we go on patrols."

Merlin makes a vague noise. Arthur pauses his bandage unrolling and takes a minute to really look at his manservant. Mottled shadows under his glazed-over eyes, head lolling a bit, looking very distant.

"Merlin, what's the matter with you?"

Rapid blinking."S...Sorry?"

"You look a hundred leagues away, you've been absent-minded the past few days, dropping things, being later than usual. Just. Not all here. What is it, what's wrong? Is it your mum? Is she ill? Are _you_ ill?"

"No, mum's––she's fine. Me too. I just. Haven't been sleeping a lot. Is all."

Arthur resumes his unrolling. "Gaius's potions not working?"

"It's not _getting_ to sleep that's the problem."

Two neat strips of clean but slightly wrinkled bandages line themselves across the table.

Arthur lets out a quiet breath. "Nightmares?"

A short nod.

"About?"

Merlin swallows around the knot in his throat. He doesn't want to tell Arthur but he hears himself speaking. "Burning. Always. Always burning."

Oh. Oh, "_Merlin_." Arthur's heart aches.

"I thought––I mean, you know, and that's––I thought it would _stop_ but just, the possibility that _someone_ could find out and I don't––I couldn't––"

Arthur is suddenly there, hands on his shoulders and Merlin realizes that he's gasping, hyperventilating like smoke is displacing the air in his lungs and the gray film threatens to cover his eyes, it clouds the edges of his vision and Arthur's room almost fades away, but Arthur is there, speaking words in his ear, "Breathe, just breath, it's alright, Merlin, just breath . . . ." and slowly he becomes okay again.

Arthur rubs his back in gentle circles. "No one is going to find out. I wont let anyone hurt you."

Tears slip down Merlin's angular face. "You can't promise that."

"God damn it, Merlin, I'm the crowned prince of Camelot and I swear, I will let no harm come to you. Okay?"

Merlin swallows and sniffs a few times before answering. "Okay."

Arthur moves his chair adjacent to Merlin's and with the utmost care, dries, applies salve to, and wraps, the burn. Merlin never cries out in pain, just grimaces occasionally. The bandage is tied in a small bow and when Merlin is allowed his arm back it is immediately curled close.

Arthur clears his throat. "Do you want to sleep in the antechamber tonight? I can have the bed made shortly, and I can send word to Gaius, if you like."

Merlin nods.

* * *

He watches Arthur throw the lit torch onto the pile of timber at his feet. The wave of heat is immediate as the fire quickly catches. He watches Uther whisper something in Arthur's ear and he watches a smirk work itself across Arthur's face. And then all is obstructed by flames.

He feels sweat drip down his back and gather at the small of his back. His skin is red already and pulling at the frayed rope which binds him to the stake does nothing. The flames at his feet quickly become unbearable and he screams: "_You promised! Arthur, you _promised_!_" And he can hear the _crack_ of heat-strained wood and it sounds like Arthur laughing. His clothes are on fire and he is consumed, screaming and screaming and

* * *

screaming. Arthur falls out of bed before he's even awake and tearing into the antechamber where Merlin lays on the bed, screaming and thrashing and the dreams have never been this bad or lasted this long and Arthur is shaking him, gently and first but then desperately trying to wake him. "It's just a nightmare," he begs, almost panicking, not knowing what to do. "Merlin, it's just a nightmare." There's a hand on his face and he registers the brush of fabric before he's pushed forcefully off the bed, landing with a comical tumble on the floor.

Merlin's looking at him from the bed, eyes wide and crazed and Arthur thinks he can see the reflection of flames in them before Merlin lets out a sob that sounds like something inside of him has snapped in two.

Arthur holds him. Arthur holds him as he's never held another person before in his entire life and Merlin allows himself to be held, shaking violently and sobbing with his entire body.

"_It was you,_" he says, barely coherent. "You promised. You swore." He pulls back and Arthur sees pure, unadulterated _fear. "_You held the torch."

"Merlin," he says firmly, but gently. "Merlin, I will not hurt you. Not ever. And if I can help it, I will let no harm come to you and gods damn it, Merlin, _you will not burn_. If you burn, then I will burn, and I. Will not. Let you burn." The bandage is unraveling on his arm and the irony could make Arthur start but he continues to hold Merlin, whose sobs have quieted. He trembles still, but not as violently as before.

Arthur presses his lips to the top of his head. "You will not burn."

After a time, Merlin's breathing slows and Arthur thinks he has finally fallen asleep, but he doesn't have it in him to detangle himself, for fear of waking him, of course. So, instead, he lowers both of their intertwined bodies to the bed and holds Merlin as he sleeps.

Arthur sleeps little that night, always there incase Merlin needs him.

At daybreak, he slips out quietly, rewrapping the burn carefully, before scarpering back to his own chambers. He dresses himself that morning and leaves with a glance back at the sleeping form in the antechamber.

* * *

Merlin wakes after midday, bleary eyed and groggy, heavy with so much sleep at once. He lies in a bed, which is not his and goes to rub his eyes when he realizes one of his hands is bandages and dully throbbing. He blinks and remembers stutteringly the events of the night before.

The memory of the nightmare is foggy and fragmented, as dreams are, but the aftermath is not. Arthur holding a torch and throwing it. Arthur telling him he wouldn't ever be hurt. Arthur holding him as he cried. Arthur holding him. Arthur.

He hears Arthur's chamber door open and close and Merlin quickly makes himself scarce on the far side of the bed. There's a bit of clattering from the main room before Arthur cautiously sticks his head into the antechamber.

"Oh, good, you're up. I was starting to worry."

They stare at each other for a moment, Arthur mildly, Merlin, eyes wide and gaping without opening his mouth. Merlin scrambles forward, launching himself at Arthur, hugging him, holding him close.

Arthur is taken aback. He surveys the manservant clasped around his waist and thinks for a moment. "Hello. Nice to see you, too."

Merlin looks up, eyes shining. "Thank you." He squeezes tighter.

Arthur wants to scoff. He wants to rotate his shoulders and sigh and smile boyishly and say, "For what?" but he doesn't. He gentle removes Merlin and sits next to him on the narrow bed. There's silence, for a little while, then, "I meant it."

"Meant what?"

Arthur turns, looking at him seriously. "I wont let anyone, _anyone_, hurt you. No one. Especially not me. Ever. You will not burn. Do you believe me?"

Merlin swallows. He bites his lip. He nods.

"Good. Now, are you hungry? I can have food brought up if you are––Merlin, what's _wrong_?"

The servant, the warlock, the young man with mussed black hair shakes his head. He blinks tears out of his impossible blue eyes. "Nothing," he says quietly. "It's nothing."

* * *

**A/N: Goodness, it's been a while, hasn't it? **

**I think it would be easy to blame hiatus.2 on school and exams and The Real World, but the hiatus.2 has been fueled by a persistent lack of motivation to write anything, really. I thought I had broken out of it last time, but clearly, I was wrong. I didn't want to just drop off the face of the earth, or anything, and a part of me really, really, _really _wanted to just write already and update this damn thing, and then, well, this chapter happened. It's very long and a bit syrupy sweet. **

**I think this point is a good place to sort of end this (poorly updated, erratic) anthology I've been keeping. That's not to say I wont ever be updating or writing hurt/comfort oneshots (are you kidding? that's my niche) but perhaps they will come much fewer and far between (more than previously thought possible). Maybe I'll even part an Occupational Hazards Pt 2 and give it a less dumb sounded title. Maybe. summer is coming up and I have had the inexplicable urge to rewatch seasons 1-4 of Merlin and maybe while watching, some reserve of inspiration will be stirred up and I'll be writing frenzily (not a word) again. But, if not, I'll still be writing. It's what I do.**

**Thank you so much for reading, if you've been a reader since the first chapter one, or if you have just discovered this fic because it's 3 AM and you can't sleep. It's such a nice feeling to know that people are out there and reading and _enjoying_ something that I've written. Really amazing. Thank you so much for over 100 reviews as well! (!) I still really can't get over that. **

**Again, thank you for reading. Feedback, as always, is appreciated, but never necessary. **


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